


They Used To Tell Me I Was Regular

by gliddies



Series: Tree. [2]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eating Disorders, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gliddies/pseuds/gliddies
Summary: “They used to tell me I was regular, got me sitting on the edge of my seat”“They used to tell me a lot of things, tried to tell me how I should think”
Series: Tree. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797346
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	They Used To Tell Me I Was Regular

**Author's Note:**

> “Wrong” - What So Not + Oliver Tree [UNRELEASED]
> 
> this has been gathering dust for a while so i thought i’d post it. 
> 
> it’s the start to an abandoned AU i dubbed the “Cloudy.” AU [It’s Always Cloudy In Philadelphia]. the concept being that the gang’s trauma and lifestyle hit them early and they were all severely affected much more obviously than on the show. AKA mental illness AU.
> 
> if anyone sees this and wants to pick it up, hmu on twitter, tumblr, or discord cause i got quite a few fuckin notes on it lmao.

“Dennis? Deeeenniiisssss~”

Mac grins absentmindedly to himself as he gently prods his roommate, making sure to wake him as delicately as possible. “Come on, lazy bones. It’s almost mid morning.”

He chuckles a little, giving the lumpy mound of the duvet a slight shake. The lump eventually jolts, wiggling about on the bed as if unaware it’s been awoken unnaturally and is trying to get comfy again. It lets out a quiet, scratchy groan - muffled by the thick layers of material.

“Jesus Christ Dennis, you’ve had plenty of sleep, get uuuup!”

Mac grabs the lump and shakes it once again, smile morphing into one of maternal irritation. Eventually, the lump jolts again, moving further up the bed before a pair of miscellaneous smaller lumps shoot out and grabs a pillow from the head of the bed, bringing it back under the duvet like a wolf taking it’s prey back to it’s young. Before Mac can go to prod or shake him again, the duvet shifts and starts to raise. It eventually flops back on itself, revealing the figure underneath like a ruby red curtain.

The creature looks vaguely human. Seemingly owning all two hundred and six bones, two feet, two hands, a head, and it has skin. So is it human? It holds the pillow to itself in a vice grip, clutching it tightly with white tallons, shielding it’s sensitive underbelly. The creature may be scared. No obvious tail, either non existent or kept between it’s legs in fear. Its head is burried into the pillow, protecting its eyes from the gaze or attack of predators. The creature has light hairs covering every inch of it’s body, more than a human but less than a short haired dog; it all stands on end as it’s form trembles.

“Um... Dennis...?”

The creature’s muscles immediately tense up, it’s head snaps up to reveal an almost human face. perspiration covers it’s forehead, a similar dampness also plaguing the dark areas under it’s eyes. It’s _so close_ to being human, an untrained eye would possibly say it _is_ human. But it’s not, rather something just slightly under homosapiens in the evolutionary timeline.

It’s skin is a ghostly white, clammy with sweat yet dry and flaky. Eye’s locked onto the human above him; crystal blue’s wide, engulfing it’s almost non existent pupils. The skeletal system is far too visible to be called human, bones jutting out at every visible angle, skin sagging over the bone like expired meat on a rusty butcher’s hook. Unlike other inhuman creatures, it’s not naked. Many layers of wool and polyester adorn its shaking form, it’s paws and head being the only visible flesh.

“Den...?”

All of a sudden the creature lets out a terrifying, high pitched screech - not unlike a wounded dog. It leaps out of the bed, taking half of the duvet with it as it scrabbles to crawl to the corner of the room; easily the safest area, unable to be stuck up on from behind. The pillow is gripped even tighter, the almost finger-like appendages digging into the softness like molars mashing and squishing into a juicy steak. It’s form trembles even more violently, bordering on vibrating as it submits to it’s predator.

_resisting makes it hurt_

_resisting makes it hurt_

_resisting makes it hurt_

_’you want to be a good boy, don’t you Den?’_

Dennis lets out a strangled gasp, clutching the pillow tighter as he looks up at ~~the libr~~ Mac. Tears quickly well in his eyes, pooling under the hollow caverns of his eye sockets; the droplets quivering over his waterline in tandem with his bottom lip.

“Holy fuck, Dennis!! What the fuck??” Mac quickly rushes over, dropping to his knees before it and pulling it into a tight embrace. His eyebrows jut upwards and his lips pout in confusion and pain, he slows down his voice, raising the pitch a little as he begins to coo, “Shhh~ It’s okay, Den. I’ve got you? Just stay calm, okay? It’s okay. It’s okay, Den...”

A strained sob pulls itself from Dennis’ mouth as he struggles to pull himself out of his grip, he begins mumbling incoherently under his breath. “You... You don’t want me to hug you...?” Mac sounds a little hurt, “Um... Okay...?” Despite every atom in his body telling him otherwise, he slowly releases the grip on it.

Dennis quickly scrambles away, getting to another corner of the room and hugging the pillow again. He thinks about Mr Tibbs as he begins to rock himself.

“Dude... Are you sick or something?” Mac queries, looking closer at the figure.

It’s Dennis. But it’s not _Dennis_. He’s emaciated. Skin palid and deathly pale, every vein in his hands and face are visible. His hair is missing in clumps, some patches unnaturally shorter than others. His eyes are both puffy and sunken in at the same time, dark grey bags underneath to portray decades of unrest, whites almost fully red and yellow from blood and jaundice. Jaw no longer looking sharp and masculine, it sags ever so slightly, although the hollows where his cheeks should be is enough to suggest his jaw doesn’t sag from weight gain.

_It must be a nightmare._

“Bro... Am I going fucking crazy right now? Did I get roofied at The Rainbow and i’m just hallucinating all this? Did you drug me for some weird research for chicks?”

Dennis slowly peaks his head up, eyes _just_ visible underneath the overgrown curls spilling over his face. He hugs the pillow a little tighter, wishing with all his might that it’d turn into a small, blue stuffed elephant.

_It must be a nightmare._

Mac sighs, slowly; deciding to treat whatever-the-fuck-is-going-on-right-now as real life for the time being, “You... Um... You’re not looking too good there, Den... Everything okay...?”

With another sharp flinch, Dennis retreats back behind the pillow, almost thin enough to hide behind it. His trembling picks back up again; if it wasn’t for his many layers of clothes, he may be able to rattle his bones against the bedroom wall.

“Huh? Why’d you flinch when I called you Den? I thought you liked it... You like it, don’t you?”

_‘You like it, don’t you?’_

_‘You like it, don’t you.’_

_‘You like it, you like it.’_

_‘You like it, you like it, you like it, you like it, you like it, you l-‘_

Dennis jolts, suddenly; he presses himself further against the wall as he shakes his head repeatedly.

“Fuck... Dude... What’s going on? You gotta talk to me. What’s this about?” The shaking suddenly pauses, almost freezing completely as Dennis slowly raises his head up again. His face falls further as he sees the look of pain on Mac’s face, his own scrunches up as a pathetic sob tumbles out of his mouth.

“Okay... I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I’m not gonna let you stay there alone like that. I’m gonna hug you.”

Mac pushes himself to his feet, quickly bridging the already small gap between them as he grabs hold of dennis and lifts him up into a firm embrace, a strong hand rubbing circles into his back. Dennis seems to instantly relax at that. Despite keeping his arms limp by his side, he melts into Mac’s embrace like butter on disgusting, calorie laden, dairy filled pancakes. He lets out a shaky exhale, warm against Mac’s light tee as he keeps his face burried in his chest.

“It’s okay Dennis. I’ve got hold of you. You’re safe with me, okay? You just need to tell me what’s going on.” Mac gently coo’s into his ear, keeping a tight grip on his trembling form.

Slowly, Dennis shakes his head once again; his hands reach up to clasp over his ears, as if shielding himself from Mac’s words. A quiet noise emits from him, a mixture of a sob and something else less intelligible.

Mac sighs to himself as he tries to ignore the dull throb in his chest, the feeling of worry seeping deep into his veins and nestling inside the spongy marrow of his bones. _‘What the fuck is going on’_ He thinks to himself; trying to organise the multitude of questions in his head.

Once he’s sure Dennis is less volatile, he carefully sits himself down on the edge of the bed, resting Dennis on his lap and keeping a tight grip on him.

“N...”

“Huh? What’s wrong, Den?”

Dennis flinches again, shoving the pads of his fingers against his tragus in a pathetic attempt to block out his voice. “Not... Mac...” He manages to choke out.

“The hell are you talking about? Of course i’m Mac? Are you high? Is that why you look like shit?” Mac reaches out and pries one of Dennis’ eyelids wide open with his forefinger and thumb, leaning closer and inspecting his eye. He frowns at the sight of his pinprick pupils. “Are you on meth?? Is that it?? Jesus, dude, I know you have issues but meth isn’t-

“N... Off... Off!” Dennis scrambles to get out of his grip again, he throws his head back as he begins to cry out. “Mac! Mac!!! Maaaac!!!”

“Fucking _Christ_ , Dennis! Calm down!! I’m gonna call Dee, see if she can help.” Mac gently lays Dennis back on the bed, picking up the previously abandoned pillow and giving it back to him. He then carefully backs away and walks out of the room to look for his phone. After a few moments of desperate searching, he finds it. He quickly unlocks it and scrolls down his contacts to find Dee, feeling a little uneasy at the multitude of acronyms he has to scroll past.

_“NEDA”_

_“SAMHSA”_

_“Suzy.”_

_“NSPL”_

_“NCPTSD”_

_“POISON CONTROL”_

_“Dee”_

_Finally._

It takes at least four rings for her to pick up, and then about ten seconds for an irritated sigh to be heard from the other side. “The _fuck_ do you want, cunt?”

“Woooaahh! What crawled up your ass!” Mac exclaimed, shocked at the unexpected anger in his voice.

“Why did you call me.”

“It’s... It’s Dennis. He’s acting like a fucking psycho! He looks all ghostly and started screaming and he looks like he’s on drugs- Oh God don’t tell me you’ve been smoking crack with him again. Are you? Dee?? Are you both crackheads again??” 

A dull tone fills the room.

“Hello? Dee? Helloooo???”

Mac frowns to himself, Dee never hangs up on him. After a short sigh, Mac puts his phone down and walks back into Dennis’ bedroom, eyes skating over his trembling figure with concern, watching him curl into himself like a sickly worm. He carefully approaches him and perches himself on the edge of the bed, looking down at him. “You’ve gotta tell me what’s up, Den. You’re scaring me.”

“N... Not Mac... Want Mac.” Dennis’ eyes slowly open as he looks up at him, clutching the pillow tightly and wrapping his legs around it so it nestled between his thighs.

“But I am Mac? How am I not Mac?”

Dennis burries his face back into the pillow, his voice coming out a little muffled, “Too soft.”

“Well... Whatever the fuck is going on, hiding away isn’t gonna fix it. Can you stand up?” Mac’s voice softens further without realising it, giving him a sad smile.

“Tell.”

“Huh?”

Dennis stays silent.

Mac sighs for what feels like the hundredth time this morning, trying to figure out what he’s saying. After a beat, he attempts to harden his voice; although unable to remove the shakiness from it, “S... Stand up, now.”

With slight hesitation, Dennis _does_ start to move, shooting a hand out to push himself into a sitting position. It takes a further minute to shakily get to his feet, and he continues to hug the pillow to his chest.

“There we go! Well done buddy” Accompanied by a warm smile; Mac brings him into a gentle hug. Dennis quickly shakes his head, wriggling a little to get out of his grip.

Remembering what was said just moments ago, Mac hardens his voice again, albeit keeping the cooing tone, “Now, Dennis, don’t go wriggling about. Let me hug you, okay?”

_‘let me let me let me let me let me let me let me let me let me’_

Dennis suddenly wilts in his grip, fat tears quickly forming and spilling down his face; although he stays completely silent, going limp.

“Oh shit, was that bad? Shit, shit, shit, the fuck do I do... Um... Stop crying? ... _Please_? Fuck...” Mac quickly sets him back down on the bed, letting go of him as he begins to fret, “Y... You’re not Dennis. Dennis doesn’t cry. He- He doesn’t have feelings like this. He’d kick me in the nuts before crying like this. Who the fuck _are_ you?”

After a short moment of comatosis, Dennis slowly curls himself into a ball in his sitting position, gently rocking once again as he quietly murmurs to himself, “Not there... Not there... Not there... Need Mac... N- Need Mac...” His voice cracks a little, adding to the preexisting hoarseness.

“I said, who are you? And why the fuck are you so scared?”

“...’M... Dennis... ‘N... Don’t wanna...”

Mac sighs, loudly, thinking for a moment before attempting to talk firmly again, “I’m making coffee, we need to fucking talk.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Mac whistles to himself as he rustles through the fridge to look for milk. He’d already prepared the coffee maker, but for the life of him he can’t find any milk or sugar. The quiet pat of socked feet against linoleum disrupts him from his thoughts, he turns around to look at Dennis, holding back a visible wince, “You um... You know where the milk and sugar are?”

“Not allowed.”

“What? Why the fuck aren’t they allowed?” Mac frowns at him before diverting his attention back to the coffee maker, pouring himself and Dennis a mug each.

“Saturated fat causes heart disease and sugar causes diabetes.” He says, as if on queue.

Mac frowns even further. “Did your Mac really let you get away with that? Is that why you’re so fucking sick?” A hint of anger can be heard in Mac’s voice.

“His decision.”

The pouring of the boiling black coffee stops briefly, deafening silence permeating the two men’s eardrums for a brief moment before Mac continues pouring, “That’s not good.”

Dennis decides not to comment on that, choosing instead to pick up one of the pillows from their couch and walk over to the table, placing the pillow on the seat and carefully lowering himself down.

Mac finishes preparing the two mugs of coffee and places them both on the table, sitting down opposite Dennis as he wraps his hands around the warm ceramic.

“Did Dee tell you to do this.”

“Huh?”

“Did she say it would help if you pretended you had feelings again.”

“A... _Again_? What are you talking about, dude? I _always_ have feelings? We’ve been over this!”

“It’s not funny. It’s not helping.”

“Dennis. I swear I’m not doing anything that Dee told me to do.”

“I want Mac. Give me Mac.”

“I... I’m right here?”

“ ** _I SAID GIVE ME MAC!!!_** ” Dennis grabs hold of his coffee and throws it across the room; he watches it smash before dropping his head in his hands, muffled sobs leaking out as he begins to shake.

Mac looks, mortified. Unsure of what to do, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, dude. I _am_ Mac. It’s just that _you’re_ not Dennis... Would telling me what you remember me as, help?” He wonders if Dennis has some strange form of amnesia.

“N-Not you...” Dennis slowly lifts his head up, burying his face half in his sleeves as he chokes back sobs, face scrunched up in distress.

“And? Does he look different? Act different? Sound different? You gotta tell me about him cause I’m apparently just making you worse.” Something twists in Mac’s chest when he says that, he chooses to ignore it for now. With a small shake of his head, Dennis sinks back down to hide his face in his hands, sniffling. “Fuck this. I’m gonna call Charlie. He’ll be able to help.”

Mac unravels his hands from his mug and stands up, walking back to grab his phone again. He scrolls through his numbers and finds charlie, hoping he’ll pick up quickly.

“Hey, man! Wwwwhat’s up?” Oh thank God.

“Charlie, thank _God_. I need help, Dennis is being all-

“Ahhh ‘e’s bein’ all weird again? That’s what the nnnumbers ‘ur for.”

“No, dude, I don’t know what you mean by numbers but this isn’t normal. He thinks I’m not myself and he keeps crying and he looks _sick_. He’s not acting like himself and-“

“ _Oh_... Wwwait a sec’ there buddy... Y... You like smilin’... ‘N all that? Bein’ all happy ‘n gay ‘n maybe short?” Charlie giggles through the phone, despite the gentle crackling the slurring of his voice is extremely apparent.

“Um... Yeah? I’m not short though.”

“Oh shit!! Yer’... Your in a parallel universe!! That’s so fuckin _coooooool_ , dude!!! Does it hurt?”

“W-What the fu-?” Mac sighs, reminding himself to stay level headed, “Okay, say I _am_ in a parallel universe, what do I act like?”

“Ahhh you’re kind of a... A... Dunno... All quiet an’ stuff... Aliens took _allllll_ your feelin’s. You like Dennis though!! Make sure he stays alive ‘n all that...”

“What _is_ up with Dennis?” Mac asks.

“Shit, he’s normal innnn... Your universe? Bitch must’a got some’n else... An’way... Jus’ do all your weird kinky stuff ‘n remember the numbers.” Charlie abruptly hangs up. Wait... Kinky stuff?

Time’s like these are when Mac is grateful that he is the only one to be aware of his thoughts, as despite every single other occurrence of this morning - he’s quick to get curious and excited. With a disgusting lack of hesitation, Mac pockets his phone and makes his way back to Dennis.

In Mac’s brief absence, Dennis was able to calm down, and is now rubbing at his closed lids with scrunched up sleeves, wincing at the painful friction against the raw skin.

“Dennis! Hey, Dennis!” Mac quickly approaches him, “I just got off the phone with Charlie, and he... He said something about... Kinky stuff? You know what that’s all about?”

Dennis’ eyes widen, suddenly. He quickly shakes his head and clasps his hands over his mouth, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

With a quiet gasp, Mac’s heart _sinks_. He tentatively steps a little closer, “Oh... W... Why’re you covering your mouth? I... I’m not gonna do anything bad?”

“Not hungry!”

Mac’s face scrunches up in utter confusion, trying to recover from the whiplash of emotions, “Okay can you _please_ explain to me what the fuck is going on?”

“Not hungry.” Dennis shakes his head once again, keeping his hands firmly over his mouth.

“Dude, unless you wanna keep being all weird like this, I need to know what this _‘other’_ Mac is like so I don’t fuck up, okay?” Irritation creeps into his voice despite trying to stay calm.

Slowly, reluctantly, Dennis moves his hands away from his mouth, sliding the cuffs of his sweats over his knuckles, “Okay...”

“ _Thank you._ ” Mac drops himself back down into his seat, grabbing his untouched coffee and taking a large sip, cringing at the bitterness.

“Mac is tall.”

“But _I’m_ ta-

“Not fat. Doesn’t talk. Won’t let me pass. Forces me to eat. Wants to fuck me. Hides all the razors. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh. Isn’t gentle. Hates courtrooms. Locks everything at night.” Dennis pants a little, seemingly exhausted from talking.

“Okayyy that’s a hell of a lot to unpack... What do you mean about passing? Is everything okay...?” Mac’s eyes soften, slowly extending a hand. “Isn’t gentle isn’t gentle isn’t gentle isn’t gentle!” Dennis quickly hides himself again.

Mac reluctantly retracts his hand, wrapping it back around the mug to give it a bastardised hug, wishing he could do the same to himself.

After an uncomfortable length of silence, Dennis pipes up, “Records.”

“Records?” Mac’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Like music? Information? Awards?”

Dennis says nothing, instead slowly rising to his feet and approaching one of the kitchen draws, pulling it open and pulling out a thick, black binder. He hefts it up with both arms and drops it onto the table in front of Mac. “Woah what’s this?”

“...”

“Okay... I’m guessing you want me to read it?” Mac waits for an answer before realising he’s not going to get one, he instead looks down at the binder and opens it up; eyes widening at the mass of medical paper’s, Dennis’ name, and his own handwriting. It all looks real. Mac has never seen this binder before, and no one could replicate medical documents to this extent. Where the fuck is he?

Dennis carefully sits back down in his seat, watching Mac’s face go through multiple emotions. He thinks to himself; _‘why would Mac do this? It would make sense if Dee told him to, but he said she didn’t. Mac doesn’t lie. Where is Mac? I want Mac. I want Mac I want-‘_

“You’re not Dennis.” The voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts, a sharp but pained stare penetrates his vision, “You’re... You’re like a... A... I don’t know... Sad Dennis? Like... If he could feel...?” Mac looks back at the contents of the binder, feeling his heart sink further at every _‘suicide attempt, type II’_ he sees.

“You’re not Mac” Dennis answers, watching Mac’s face fall.

“W... Why are you so sad..?” Mac looks back at him with an expression of grief and pain, fingers anxiously thumbing over the pages, “Did Mac do something bad...?”

Dennis slowly shakes his head, hoisting his knees up and wrapping his arms around them to comfort himself, feeling a little ill at the sound of concern in Mac’s voice. Reluctantly, Mac continues to flick through the pages. His stomach drops as he comes across a disturbingly thick section labelled ‘ _diagnosed illnesses_ ’, and it drops further as he reads through them.

_“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder”_

_“Anorexia Nervosa”_

_“Avoidant Restrictive Food Intake Disorder”_

_“Selective Mutism”_

_“Avoidance Anxiety”_

_“Paraphobia”_

_“Haphephobia”_

_“Borderline Per-”_

Mac shuts the binder.

“Is this some sort of fucked up nightmare? What the fuck is going on?” Mac looks back up at Dennis, his expression continues to wilt. Dennis doesn’t respond.

“Dennis? What are you staring at?”

“Dennis!!” 

* * *

Dennis is abruptly awoken by a large pair of hands throwing his duvet off him and placing themselves under his arms. He’s hoisted up and held tightly against a hard body as he’s carried out of his room. He slowly opens his rheum crusted eyelids, squinting at the sudden brightness attacking his retinas. While his vision adjusts; he hides his time inhaling the intoxicatingly strong scent of soap, musk, and drakkar noir.

Slowly, he’s lowered onto a cushioned seat and a slightly smaller pillow is thrust onto his lap; the figure walks away to tend to its usual morning routine. Dennis nestles the pillow between his legs so he can roll the cuffs of his sleeves over his fists, gently rubbing the crust and dried tears from his eyes. It’s a hungry day today. Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to eat more than usual; but he may not resist as much. It’s tiring, anyway.

During his internal ruminations, Dennis briefly forgets that other humans exist; being cruelly brought back to reality by the harsh clang of ceramic against the table, a drop of steaming tar-black coffee runs down the side and pools at the bottom.

Dennis looks up and meets Mac’s gaze, staying stationary for a moment before extending two shaky hands to pick up the mug. In his peripheral he can see Mac’s eyes boreing into him, his stare penetrating his very soul. Although today it’s more focused on his hands, watching them vibrate with more fervour than usual.

In what feels like less than a second, a thermometer is thrust into his mouth; the back of a cold hand pressing firmly against his forehead. Dennis meets his gaze again, he can see his darting pupils and the teeth shooting out to bite anxiously at his lower lip, reopening barely healed wounds.

“Thirty-five point eight”

_Oh hey, a new record._

The faucet is running again, hands rummaging through countless cupboards, the sound of a kettle starting to boil. After a further minute, a hot water bottle - _adorned with a baby blue fleece cover, sporting an all too familiar trunk and ears_ \- is forced into his arms, which Dennis eagerly pulls closer and cuddles into, ignoring the near painful warmth against his chest. The corner of his mouth twitches a little as he feels a blanket draped over him.

A phone clatters onto the table as Mac sits back down, eyes once again boreing into the smaller man before him. He clasps his hands together and squeezes them, anxiously picking at the skin around his nails. After barely ten seconds of sitting down, he stands back up, approaching Dennis and roughly pulling his sleeves up to his elbows. He places his index and middle finger against the inside of his wrist and uses his other hand to pull at his forearm and check for irregularities.

Part of Dennis feels like he should apologise. He shouldn’t do it. Not really. Doctor’s tell him not to. Therapists tell him not to. Dee tells him to. Mac tells him not to. He still does.

“Where.”

He sounds angry. Well, if angry could be watered down like his oatmeal and his vodka. 

“Bedside table, taped on the lamp.”

The hands over his arm dissapear and the body they’re attatched to briskly walks away, the sound of a flushing toilet and drawers being inspected can be heard.

“Sorry Mac.” Dennis says to no one.

Some time passes. Maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours. The coffee is half finished, a disgusting lukewarm temperature which makes the bitterness all the more noticable; it makes Dennis’ stomach hurt, the acidity fighting against the preexisting acids in his gut. Mac returns. Eye’s bloodshot and swollen, sleeves longer, stature shorter, shaking. He sits back down in his seat, breath clearly uneven. Dennis can read the expression on his face. As clear as the clouds in the sky.

It says, _“I’m sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry I can’t fix you”_

_“I’m sorry I won’t stop trying”_

But that’s bullshit. Why would he apologise for not letting him slit his fucking wrists or jump off a twenty story building? That’s just fucking weird.

Mac’s bruises look a little like clouds. His skin is blue enough to be the sky; too vascular and obvious anemia he refuses to get treatment for. Bruises dark enough from muscular hands and powerful intent, dark blues and purples peppering his body. He rationalises it by saying it makes him look tough, even if people know the real reason, he’s still beating up bastards - ones that reside in the real world or his mind, it’s the same thing.

_It’s a breakfast day._

_It’s the least Dennis can do, really._

**Author's Note:**

> come shout at me.  
> twitter | gliddies  
> tumblr | gloochie  
> discord | gliddies#2872


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